


Right and Wrong

by SherlockScottHolmes



Category: Fargo (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: American John, American Sherlock, Blood & Snow, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Brutal Murder, Dark Character, Dark Comedy, Dark Sherlock, M/M, Minnesota, Other, fargo - Freeform, mature - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 08:42:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14233557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockScottHolmes/pseuds/SherlockScottHolmes
Summary: I just want to say that I welcome criticism however, if it is not corrective, or with the intent to ‘assist’ the author, then please keep your disrespectful and/or hurtful comments to yourself. Thank you. - SSH‘Maybe you’re right, and they’re wrong...’





	1. Chapter 1

Another night... Like any other. He’s standing next to his girlfriend, incessant babbling berating his ears, prompting him to turn. “You gotta try harder, hon. Smile, for Pete's sake.” He says in a hushed tone. 

The woman’s eyes meet his, looking up. “Maybe wear a nicer tie.” She mutters, pulling at the fabric around his neck. Sherlock feigns a look of hurt. “You gave me this tie.”

“Well...” She begins. “If you were a better salesman, I'd have bought you a nicer tie.” A ‘hmph’ comes from her throat. Sherlock rolls his eyes and masks his disgruntlement with a laugh. “Aw, come on now...” He says, scanning the room of chattering people. Ah, award night— What a great cesspool of the masses. 

“Sherlock Holmes!” A gravelly, heavily accented Minnesotan voice speaks up out of the crowd. “Remember in Highschool? Everyone called you Sher-cock Holmes... Good times, eh?” 

Sherlock looks down and chuckles, he swirls champagne around his glass, clearing his throat. “Oh, Yeah—“ He says, looking up. “Heck, almost forgot about that...” The man, Philip, claps him on the shoulder with a laugh. “Aw, yeah...”

“Anyway—“ He says. “I gotta get up there...” Sherlock sets his champagne glass down on a high-countered table and walks up onto a podium, shaking the hand of one of his superiors. The older man hands Sherlock a crystal award that’s says: ’Insurance _Salesman of the Year...’_

“Heck...” Sherlock says, looking forward. “First, I wanna say, thank you very much for this—“ he gestured to the award. “Lots of hard work, stress but, it was worth it.” The man shrugs his shoulder, chuckling. This is sort of a step-up in his life actually. He has no idea that his life will soon go to shit. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Yes, Hello? Uh— Uh-huh...” Sherlock sits in an office, twirling a telephone cord around his finger as he speaks. “Right— You’re serious? Aw, heck...” The man breathes out a sigh and looks up towards the plain-white popcorn ceiling. “Francine— I don’t have time for this right now... Yes— All right, I’ve got to go. All right, bye.”

Sherlock sighs once again and puts the telephone down with a ‘clack.’ The young man punches the bridge of his nose, furrowing his eyebrows. “Ugh—“ He stands and raises his arms towards the ceiling. His bones ‘crack’ as they’re popped. He’s been sitting in that damned office chair for ages. 

His long arms scoop up his orange water-proof parka, and he snatches his ‘Blackberry’ phone up from the old wooden desk that he occupies. It’s scattered with paperwork, business cards and pens strewn across the expanse of the smooth surface. 

Sherlock sniffs and slides his arms into the sleeves of his parka before walking outside. The air is crisp and obviously, cold. The man’s breath swirls in front of his face, much like smoke would from a dragon’s nostrils. He cups his hands over his mouth and exhales hot air into them in an attempt to warm up, at least a little bit. 

His mobile begins to chime, and he fishes the electronic device from the warmth of his trousers pocket. The caller I.D reads:  _’Pricilla’._ Fuck his life. His thumb ghosts over the ‘reply’ button before pressing down and bringing the phone up to his ear. “Hey, Cilla... What’s going on?” He asks in a rather uninterested tone. “Uh-Huh...” He’s glad that she can’t see him, because he rolls his eyes. “Groceries— Yeah, great. Yeah, I’ll get it, Yes... All right. Bye...” He hangs up. 

He figures he’ll just stop by the corner store, after all, Pricilla just needs some cough syrup, Lysol and feminine toiletries. He pulls his wallet from his pocket, rifling through it for a few bills. All he needs is $25. As he strides into the store, the door makes the It’s usual annoying ‘ding-dong’ sound. Sherlock’s eyes scan the store quickly and he journeys down one of the aisles, a blue basket in hand. He plucks the items he needs off of the shelves, and shuffles to the check-out area. 

He looks up at the cashier and flashes a forced smile, the $25 dollars in his right hand. “Hi, how are you doing?” He asks the woman, glancing at her name tag, which reads:  _‘Cathy’._ The woman, Cathy, looks up as she scans the items. “Fine. You?” Sherlock huffs ans chuckles. “Ah, can’t complain...” He says, rubbing at the money between his fingers with pent-up frustration. 

“Well, here ya go...” Cathy hands the bag over to Sherlock, who takes it and clicks his tongue with boredom, nodding. “Thanks.” He leaves. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock climbs into his old Toyota, and turns the key in the ignition. The engine sputters a couple of times before cooperating. “There we go...” He mutters to himself. The man looks into the side-mirrors before backing out of the parking place and making the journey back to his residence. 

He reaches forward and turns the dial on the dashboard labelled ‘ _heat/fan’._ Initially, the change in temperature fogs up the windows and windshield. It dissipates promptly. The young man taps his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently, frowning as he looks forward at the darkened road. 

He pulls into the driveway of his one-story home. The outside lights are lit, so obviously, Priscilla is home. Sherlock pulls the key out from the ignition and he steps from his vehicle with an exasperated sigh. His breath swirls in front of him, a large cloud of air. The man grabs the corner-store bag and walks into his house. 

“Cilla, I’m home!” He calls throughout the small house. “I got the stuff ya asked for, ya know—“ he trails off, setting the bag onto the kitchen counter. “Uh, Lysol and... Yeah.”

”Well, it took you long enough, darlin’.” She rifles through the plastic bag and pulls the items from it. “Oh, by the way... Ya gotta call the repair man. I’ve waited too long for the dryer to be fixed.” She sighs. 

“Yeah... I will.” Sherlock nods. The young man silently curses. Screw the repair man, he can do it himself. “Okay. How was your day then?” He asks, changing the subject. Priscilla leans against the counter, looking into her boyfriend’s eyes. “It was just peachy...” She tilts her head. “Tiring day?”

”Oh, yeah, ya know... Phone calls, paperwork... Lots of stuff...” Priscilla scrunches up her face as she nods. “Right then... Well, I’m goin’ to bed then...” 

Sherlock leans forward against the counter and blinks a couple of times, closing them and opening them. He eventually sighs and rubs his temples, nodding at her comment. “Okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

_3 November, 2006_

 

Sherlock shuffles down the pavement, his  Timberland boots scraping shallow ravines into the snow. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his orange parka despite them being gloved. In this weather, layers are key. The man blows out a breath of air, which comes up to swirl around his hat-clad head. 

Cars pass by on the white-powdered road, their tailpipes leaving trails like airplanes do in the sky. Sherlock had just gotten off of work for the day, thankfully. He looks down at the ground for a moment before once again staring forward. The young man runs into another man with an ‘ _oomph’._

Standing in front of the man is the past bane of his existence. Maybe the current bane too. A smirk appears on the other man, Philip’s, face. “Hey— Is is...? Nah... Sher-cock Holmes?” He asks, throwing his arms up. The man claps his son on the shoulder as he snorts out a laugh. Philip stares at Sherlock with demeaning eyes. “Or, remember you’re other nickname? Sherlock pencil-dick. Oh, that ones my favourite...”

“Remember that girl you were with in Highschool? What was her name again? Phyllis— Pat— Ya know, she gave me a tug once...” He makes an obscene gesture with his hand and raises his eyebrows. Sherlock nods and tilts his head to the side with a forced smile. “Oh— Yeah, I- I...” He stammers. “Priscilla.” 

Philip shoves his hands into his pockets and he nods with a condescending manner. “Hm— Yeah...” Sherlock chuckles, albeit nervously. “We’re dating now... Goin’ on eight years...” 

“Oh, eight years...? I bet she’s regretting that, huh?” Philip asks, stepping forward. It’s like a game of Dominoes because, Sherlock steps back too. Philip smiles again. “What is it then? Is it your ugly rat-face, or your pencil-dick?” 

“Listen now—“ Sherlock holds a hand up as he takes another step back. “I- I... I don’t wanna do this— That was a long time ago.” He stammers, backing himself into a corner. A low chuckle presents itself from the other man’s throat, he turns to his son but, only for a glance.

“Remember how I used to write my name in Sharpie on my fist, so that when I hit you people would know who did it?” He holds up a fist now, slowly inching it towards Sherlock’s face. “Remember?” He asks again. The paler man nods, stuttering. “Uh, Yeah... Yeah but, that was a long time ago...?” Philip pulls his fist back and nods, still smiling. “Yeah—“ He then sends it forward, stopping just an inch from the other man’s face. In the spur of the moment, Sherlock flinches and turns, slamming into a window. 

 

 

 

* * *

A telephone rings repetively in the background as he sits in a waiting room chair, his leg making a jittery movement unceasingly. Sherlock clasps his hands in his lap as he leans against the back-rest. Blood seeps from the open cut on the bridge of his nose, cascading in an obscene crimson stream down his pale face. 

A man quietly sits in the chair beside him. He is unshaven, with a bowl-cut sort of haircut. The person turns and gestures to Sherlock’s face. “What happened here?” He asks. Holmes turns. “Oh, Ah... Little accident, ya know—? ‘Slippery outside.” The young man shrugs his shoulders. The other doesn’t seem to be convinced. “Nah. Who hit you?” He asks. 

“Um— An old classmate from Highschool...” Sherlock responds. “He got me in the nose.” He gestures with a nervous laugh. 

“Well, why didn’t you hit him back?” 

“I couldn’t, ya see... He—“ Sherlock leans over and continues to speak in a hushed tone. “He had his kids... I- I couldn’t...”

”So ya just let him hit you?” The man raises an eyebrow. “Did you wanna hit him back?”

“Well...” Sherlock shrugs. “I- I... uh— He started talkin’ about my girlfriend, ya see... Talkin’ bout how she and him, uh—“ He goes to make a gesture with his hand but, he stops, waving in dismissal. 

The man, Malvo, leans over and whispers, his eyes hard and serious. “If I were you... I really would have killed that man.” Sherlock widens his eyes, though he does think this man is joking. “Oh—“ He chuckles anxiously. “No— Uh. No. Well—“ He tilts his head. “Well, If you’re so serious— Why don’t you kill him for me?”

Malvo changes his facial expression, feigning a look of concern. “Are you asking me to kill this man?” He questions, leaning forward slightly, speaking in a whisper. Sherlock widens his eyes and shakes his head in a dismissive manner. “Ah— No. No, I— It was— It was a joke.” He pauses. “No.”


End file.
